March 5, 2077
In a neighborhood where the worn brick houses seemed forgotten by time, many without windows, with trash scattered on the sidewalks. A man, standing out in the decaying landscape, walked confidently. His white hair thrown back and dark eyes gave him a youthful appearance, while his formal suit contrasted sharply with the surroundings.
The local residents, upon seeing him, quickly retreated, hiding in their homes. The man, however, showed no interest in them, his attention focused on something else.
On the now empty sidewalks, he watched a boy playing alone. The young boy, with black hair and blue eyes, wielded a cardboard katana with the dexterity of a little warrior.
"Hey, you're Dean Carleone, aren't you?" The man's voice sounded casual, almost friendly, as he approached.
The boy, surprised to hear his name, turned quickly. His blue eyes met the figure of the man, a look of curiosity and caution mixing on his young face.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, still holding the cardboard katana, paying no attention to the man's surprised expression.
The man, Michael Valachi, dressed in his impeccable suit, watched the boy with a perceptive gaze. "He has the same air as his father and the piercing eyes of his mother," he thought quickly. Regaining his composure, he answered: "I'm Michael Valachi, a member of the high court. Did you know, Dean, that you are also someone very important? Your family, the Carleones, were once very influential."
Stooping down to the boy's level, Valachi continued: "Unfortunately, your father made some grave mistakes, resulting in the death of everyone... except you. I've been looking for you for a long time."
The man's gaze met the boy's blue and cold eyes. In Valachi's eyes, there was a mix of excitement and calculation, as he watched the child intently.
Dean gripped the handle of his cardboard sword tighter, a wary look in his eyes. "Did you come here to kill me?" he asked, getting straight to the point.
Michael Valachi, maintaining a neutral expression, replied: "Well, technically yes. The high court charged me with eliminating all the Carleones. But..." He paused, looking up at the sky. "It seems unfair to punish you for your father's mistakes. After all, trying to challenge the high court was, at the very least, foolish."
Turning his gaze back to the boy, Michael asked, curiously: "Do you want to know what your father did?"
To Michael's surprise, Dean responded firmly and quickly: "No!" Michael raised an eyebrow, surprised by the boy's resolute decision. "Why?"
Dean took a deep breath before speaking: "Knowing my father's mistakes won't change my current situation. It would only make me hate him even more. I prefer to live without being tied to the past."
Michael observed the boy, impressed. "Is this kid really just a child?" he thought, admiring Dean's maturity and resilience.
Michael shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and shifted the focus of the conversation: "Okay, let's get straight to the point." He watched Dean step back slightly and smiled at the boy's caution. "You have two choices," Michael began, raising a finger. "First option: die here and now as a Carleone, disappearing into the obscurity of history."
He raised the other finger, continuing: "Or, you can choose to keep your Carleone surname and serve the high court for the rest of your life." The seriousness in his voice made it clear that there was no room for negotiation.
Dean, still firmly holding his cardboard sword, pondered Michael's words. His blue eyes reflected a whirlwind of emotions: fear, uncertainty, but also a spark of determination. "What if I refuse both options?" the boy challenged.
Michael raised an eyebrow, surprised by the boy's audacity. "In that case, it would be a pity," he said, a subtle tone of threat in his voice. "But you are free to choose. Remember, Dean, this decision will shape the rest of your life."
Faced with Michael's ultimatum, Dean felt a wave of fear and uncertainty, but also a flicker of ambition. He knew that refusing the offer would mean his death. Despite the misery and adversities, Dean harbored a dream of greatness, of becoming someone important one day.
With a dry throat, Dean finally declared, "I will serve the high court."
Upon hearing this, Michael let out a laugh and approached the boy, playfully messing up his hair. "Hey, hey! My hair, darn it!" protested Dean, clearly annoyed.
Dean's reaction only made Michael laugh louder. He stepped back, letting the boy fix his disheveled hair. Turning to Dean, Michael spoke in a more serious tone, but still friendly: "I hope you don't disappoint me. So stay strong, strong enough to fulfill the missions assigned by the high court and, more importantly, to honor your legacy and make a difference."
Michael's words echoed in Dean's mind as he contemplated the path ahead, a path full of challenges and uncertainties, but also opportunities to rise again and change his destiny.
---
February 7, 2087
"Dean, wake up," a female voice sounded, familiar and somewhat exasperated.
"Did having a spear go through you head cause some permanent damage?" the woman mumbled, half to herself. "Dean Carleone, get up now!" The irritation in her voice was palpable.
Slowly, Dean's eyes opened, meeting a blurred vision that soon focused on the figure of a woman with black hair and purple eyes. Chloe was so close it almost seemed like a prelude to a kiss, her eyes shining with a mix of concern and sarcasm.
"Finally woke up? Decided to take a nap at such an opportune moment?" teased Chloe, not hiding a corner smile.
Dean blinked a few times, regaining clarity in his vision, and responded with a hint of his usual humor: "Are you trying to kiss me or just checking my breath?"
Chloe's smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She stepped back a little, keeping her gaze fixed on Dean, as if accepting a silent challenge.
"So, Dean? What do you prefer? A breath test or a surprise kiss? The idea of risking between a sewer flavor and mint is intriguing," Chloe teased, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
Dean looked at her with a slightly amused expression. "I'm going to have to refuse both options," he replied. "Chloe always liked to flirt with this kind of provocation. I remember her doing the same with Sam, until one day things got serious between them... But that's a story for another time."
Rising from the armchair, Dean stood up and looked around. The room was filled with students, all seeming to have returned from the virtual battlefield. "Looks like the Battle Royale session is over," he observed, analyzing the environment with an attentive gaze, almost as if assessing the result of an intriguing experiment.
Chloe sketched a resigned smile at the defeat. "Seems like we didn't do very well," she commented, changing the subject. "The activity is already over, and we finished last."
Dean tilted his head, curious. "And who came out on top in the end?" he asked.
Observing Sam in the distance, Chloe replied: "It was Sam. He accumulated the most points. It seems that in the end, only he and Blake were left, but time ran out before a decisive confrontation."
"Hmm, interesting," murmured Dean, thoughtfully.
Chloe, in a playful manner, looked at Dean. "And you, sleeping like a rock through all of this. Were you dreaming about something good? You wouldn't wake up at all."
Dean shrugged, maintaining a half-smile. "Maybe I was," he said, his mind wandering. "Michael Valachi and the high court, huh?" He reflected. "Never imagined that the former owner of this body was so involved with high-ranking figures..."
His thoughts wandered, pondering the hidden complexities and untold stories that intertwined in the past and the present.
---
The High Court – sounds like something out of a cheap mafia movie, doesn't it? But here in Terranova, they're a big deal. Imagine a bunch of cloak-and-dagger villains, except they wear expensive suits and wield more power than any comic book superhero. They control the underworld of crime as if they were regents of a dark kingdom, influencing everything illicit under the sun. Drugs, weapons, you name it, they have their fingers in it.
Their army of assassins is like an exclusive club for highly trained psychopaths. They're the kind that take "loyalty to the death" to a whole new level. And me? Well, I find myself as a chess piece in this game, a servant to these kings and queens of the underworld. It's like being in one of those low-budget horror comedies, where the side character, who thought they were signing up for a free trial of ultra-fast internet, actually seals a lifelong deal with the devil. And the worst part, they discover that 'ultra-fast internet' was just a hellish metaphor for 'eternal torment with terribly slow Wi-Fi'.
And speaking of the devil, there's Michael Valachi, one of the heads of this operation. The guy is like a video game boss you just can't beat. And I, Dean Carleone, have made an oath to serve these guys until the end of my days, congratulations to me.
Ah, but there's at least one thing I appreciate in all this, the pleasures and dilemmas of being a servant of the High Court. Imagine a luxury buffet: weapons that look more like jewels, money overflowing from suitcases, magical artifacts that would make any wizard drool, protection that not even royalty has, accommodations worthy of a tycoon, and food that would satisfy even the most demanding of gourmets. Yes, all this is part of the "premium service" package for a loyal employee like me, Dean Carleone.
But then, why is a guy with so many privileges enrolled in an academy as a mere Class G? Intriguing question, isn't it? It's like I'm living an episode of "Secret Agent Life," where the protagonist is placed in an unlikely situation for a mysterious mission. Maybe the High Court orchestrated my admission here, perhaps manipulating some records to put me in this den of aspiring heroes. There must be a reason, a secret mission, something worthy of a spy thriller.
Now, I wonder, what will be the grand finale of this operation? Do I have to eliminate someone here? If that's the case, I can't hesitate. The rules of the High Court are crystal clear: complete the mission or face the consequences, usually fatal. And believe me, they are not at all flexible in this regard. Disobeying an order is like signing your death warrant, and as much as I love living dangerously, I prefer to keep my head on my shoulders.
But to think that my origin is so interesting... A son of crime bosses, more lost than a blind man in a shootout, struggling in a sea of life's ironies. It's practically a scene straight out of a soap opera, where the guy finds out he's the forgotten heir of a mafia. Pretty cliché, right? But who knows, life loves to mimic those things we've seen a thousand times on TV.
But let's face it, letting the mind wander in this maze of thoughts is as productive as trying to teach quantum physics to a cat. And about the consequences that probably will come? They only appear when you give them a stage. So, what does a genius like me do? Simple! Adopt the following philosophy: "Tomorrow's problems, I leave for tomorrow's me to deal with". After all, why waste time solving problems now when I can perfectly procrastinate them? It's the art of living in the present moment, with a touch of charming irresponsibility and a pinch of sarcasm. Ah, this is the life, my dear friends.